My letter to the American press at 6:12 a.m. on October 6, 2010 (tele-transcribed):
To admirers of fashion + revolution!
Randy Moss has been sent away and it’s for the best. Even my Tom knows that Moss will thrive, once again, in the purple and gold tones of the Minnesota Vikings.
When Tom and I threw a house party in our Beacon Hill flat during OTAs, it was Moss (downtrodden, alone on the porch overlooking the city) who told me: “GB… I am far from home.”
He was very forlorn that night, refusing to speak with anyone… telling people, “China will always be red.”
I will never forget a long string of text messages Randy sent me before the 2009 season opener against Buffalo, when the Pats wore their throwback uniforms:
“My dear Gisele: How it pains me to take to the playing fields tonight,” he texted. “This obnoxious attire, ill-fashion in its day, has been brought back to life as some cruel joke by ownership. Parading us around like circus animals — draining us of our will to perform by cladding us in overtly noisome throwback ensembles. GB, how I long for the hour of my youth, when I pranced on the field in dark purples, in royal golds — not hemmed in by the hyper-nationalistic reds/whites/blues of this night. Revolution is dead.”
He told me once that he had secretly completed a 480-page novel about Neo-Realism in a Revived Europe.
Randy’s condo, on the far-outskirts of the city, was littered with hundreds of first-edition rare books (an original copy of The Great Gatsby was the coaster for my mint julep when I visited with Tom). It was the home to poetry readings gathering Boston’s underground subculture, a vast array of anarchists, newspaper reporters on the lam, and visionaries. Tom and I attended one of these events, staying until well past dawn (leaving just as Randy was beginning to cook breakfast for at least 25 artists, suggesting they ride the Peter Pan busline north into Canada and stay for weeks in a youth hostel).
I left knowing that Moss was not the man described by a self-seeking media, but a “Wideout-Poet.”
Randy texted me again this morning, as news was breaking of the trade.
I was lounging on the balcony attached to my suite at the Chateaux Santa Teresa in Rio. Below me, early-morning swimmers on holiday were gathering poolside, sipping chilled white wine. I thought of my busy workweek ahead (with a fashion show Thursday evening in the city square, and three-plus galas to attend before flying to Aspen for a respite with Tom during his bye week).
It was during this flight of fancy that Randy’s text arrived, bringing me back to the present moment. I know, from his words, that he is relieved to be heading home:
“My dearest GB, Forgive me if I woke you from sleep with this text. I am packing up my belongings and waving farewell to Foxboro. It will take months to box up the apartment — BenJarvus Green-Ellis has offered to coordinate in my absence. I have invited all to a future poetry gathering in St. Paul, where I will stay for the remainder of the season. I located an unused warehouse in the meatpacking district — vast and sparse, and perfect for poetry readings. I will live there for only $425 per month.
“I have spoken with three local college students about creating a chapbook — a photo journal — of my return to the Vikings, to be self-published on paper, using a photocopier and staples. They will help assemble the pages. If we can find a small publisher to release a second printing, that would be ideal, but I don’t hold my breath. I will continue to ball, in order to save up funds for future publishings, with hope that the poetry students of Minnesota will call my warehouse a safe-haven.
“I hope that you and Tom will visit. I even sent coach Bill a hand-written note, on felt-paper, inviting him to join a late-season party I am titling ‘Winter of Anarchy and Spirit-Vision’ — G.B., please encourage him to make the trip, so that we can mend fences.”
All the best to you, my dearest Gisele. I will remember you often. Very fondly, R. Moss”
He will be missed.